t
is that it is too full of matter. Out of the same material a more
economical writer would have made two novels and half a dozen
psychological studies for publication in American magazines. Thackeray
once met Bishop Wilberforce at dinner at Dean Stanley's, and, after
listening to the eloquent prelate's extraordinary flow and fund of
stories, remarked to his neighbour, 'I could not afford to spend at that
rate.' Violet Fane is certainly lavishly extravagant of incident, plot,
and character. But we must not quarrel with richness of subject-matter
at a time when tenuity of purpose and meagreness of motive seem to be
becoming the dominant notes of contemporary fiction. The side-issues of
the story are so complex that it is difficult, almost impossible, to
describe the plot in any adequate manner. The interest centres round a
young girl, Helen Davenant by name, who contracts a private and
clandestine marriage with one of those mysterious and fascinating foreign
noblemen who are becoming so invaluable to writers of fiction, either in
narrative or dramatic form. Shortly after the marriage her husband is
arrested for a terrible murder committed some years before in Russia,
under the evil influence of occult magic and mesmerism. The crime was
done in a hypnotic state, and, as described by Violet Fane, seems much
more probable than the actual hypnotic experiments recorded in scientific
publications. This is the supreme advantage that fiction possesses over
fact. It can make things artistically probable; can call for imaginative
and realistic credence; can, by force of mere style, compel us to
believe. The ordinary novelists, by keeping close to the ordinary
incidents of commonplace life, seem to me to abdicate half their power.
Romance, at any rate, welcomes what is wonderful; the temper of wonder is
part of her own secret; she loves what is strange and curious. But
besides the marvels of occultism and hypnotism, there are many other
things in Helen Davenant that are worthy of study. Violet Fane writes an
admirable style. The opening chapter of the book, with its terrible
poignant tragedy, is most powerfully written, and I cannot help wondering
that the clever authoress cared to abandon, even for a moment, the superb
psychological opportunity that this chapter affords. The touches of
nature, the vivid sketches of high life, the subtle renderings of the
phases and fancies of society, are also admirably done. Helen D